#hpr request week

[quillyfied]

There's never enough Aradia <> Tavros :)

you are too right, my friend! this was inspired by the horns headcanon thing going around that i belieeeeeve featured aradia and tavros, but i could be wrong. either way: horn care for everybody, wheee!

Your name is Aradia Megido and you are dragging your palemate into a pile for some much-needed TLC if it kills you.

Well, the pile is only one stop you have planned for this evening; you’re going full-on sleepover tonight. There are snacks. There are movies. There are beanbags and blankets. And by the Mother Grub, there will be horn care. Not least because you think you have stuff stuck in the tight spirals of your own horns and need his careful hand to clean them.

(Also because his are so absurdly huge and need to be painted in pretty colors.)

Tavros, however, is doing his level best to thwart your evening of romance with the dreaded phrase “I have paperwork to do,” which honestly is the dumbest thing in the world and he needs to stop. Or just leave it for Karkat to do, that’s the entire point of Karkat Vantas: to do Tavros Nitram’s leftover paperwork so his moirail can rub some of the highest-quality varnish she can afford into his rack and strengthen their bond of romance or whatever. He’d eat it up if you were in the mood to feed Karkat the story.

Tavroooooos, you whine at him in text, and continue whining over Trollian until he answers you with a long-suffering sigh with at least four I’s and tells you he’s just wrapping up and will be over shortly.

Success.

You pick out some of your rattiest PJs, because this stuff could potentially stain, and roughly braid your hair away from your horns. You catch a whiff and grimace. Yep, there’s definitely something growing in your horns that you didn’t catch after you got back from your latest romp around the dig site. You think about Tavros patiently attacking the mess with a water syringe and a damp rag and shiver, grinning.

Tavros looks bone-tired when he walks into your hive, blinks, takes his time taking in the totally romantic setup, and gives you one of his crooked half-smiles, flopping down on a beanbag.

“Hi,” he says, and you crawl into his lap to nuzzle his face and let him get a first-row seat to the thrumming your thorax is making.

You also make sure your horns pass within sniffing distance of his nose and wait for him to make the first move.

His nose wrinkles a little. “You need them cleaned out, huh?”

You grin. “You must be psychic.”

“Um.” He grins sheepishly at you and you admire the bronzey-brown color in his cheeks. “Put on a movie, and I’ll get this done.” He picks the tools he needs out of the kit you have set out while you put in the original animated Pupa Pan adventure. “Sorry I didn’t come over sooner. To get this done, I mean. I should have known you needed it, when you started pestering me.”

“I would have told you outright when I started growing mushrooms,” you tease, settling back into the bean bag and letting Tavros’ gentle hands guide your head and touch your horns as needed, his rag coming away almost black with what looks suspiciously like mildew, ew. To make your case, you are perfectly capable of performing this duty yourself and you shouldn’t have let it get this bad. It’s just really, really nice when Tavros absently massages the base of your horn while he tilts your head to the side and squirts horn cleaner into the vortex of your impossible headgear.

The cleaning process, including a very soothing varnish massage, takes up the entire movie, and you hug Tavros before shifting things around and setting his head in your lap, giving you ample access to his horns. He glances up at you and blows a resigned breath out of his nose.

“Can we make sure, that this is the kind of stuff that will…wash off?” he says, and you vividly recall the time you accidentally used more permanent horn paint to write the name of his at-the-time pitchcrush in curving looping letters the day before he had an important meeting with the guy. Luckily for everyone, Karkat isn’t exactly the best choice of kismesis for Tavros and the incident seemed to cure your precious ‘rail of his affliction before it got too weird for everybody. Though you still giggle like a wiggler whenever you see Karkat in the halls and think about Tavros’ wail of utterly embarrassed agony.

“Of course,” you soothe, rubbing his cheeks in lieu of rubbing his hornbase. They’re too big for him to feel much, and you like the feel of his cheekbones in your palms anyway. You still owe Terezi five caegars for betting against his grubfat hiding something as rugged as those cheekbones and his jawline. But you digress.

While he gets comfortable watching The Troll Brothers Grimm, you first rub both of his horns down with the varnish, making long slow strokes. Tavros makes a series of embarrassing hums and chirrups that have you blushing to your eartips. Once his horns are free of any flakes and positively shining, you take the water-based horn paint and start drawing designs. Usually the different colors are a bit taboo; you should stick to using maroon and brown. But that would only be if he was going into public, and you’re just messing around now. Besides, Gamzee got you the paint on his highblood discount and tipped you an enormous wink as he handed it over, so it would just be uncharitable to not use them.

Still, there’s something pleasantly ferocious about the way the deeper blues on his horns makes you feel. With his big calf eyes and gentle nature you’ve basically had to beat a lot of would-be palemates off with a stick, hulking blues and whimsical purples who all wanted to lay their problems at Tavros’ feet and get their proverbial (and sometimes literal) collars around his neck. No, you think viciously to yourself as you paint jagged lines and broken chains, they can’t have him, he’s all yours.

The lighter blues and greens aren’t half bad, but they put you in mind of the teal secretary who wanted a little too much extra time with her boss, the famous Nitram, and ended up getting herself tossed in jail for a few nights because she stalked him all the way to your hive and you didn’t take lightly to her intrusion. No, you didn’t sympathize with her absolute longing for his biceps and glutes, it would be really weird if you did and she needed to back off. Terezi laughed way too long and hard about that one and slapped Tavros on the rear just to see (…smell?) the flush across his face. Gamzee, meanwhile, murderously pounded a root he was grinding for some kind of calming tea into oblivion and had to start over.

The ochres and browns look lovely, and you paint them in swirling flowers and animal patterns and then laugh quietly to yourself about the time Tavros got it in his head he needed to auspistize between Sollux and the caffeine sludge grub and took it entirely too seriously. Sollux can take a good joke about half the time, but Tavros made the unfortunate mistake of trying to cut him off the source during a time crunch before a huge meeting with the Secretary of Cultural Affairs and found himself at least two feet off the ground and considerably more sparky than he would’ve liked. Kanaya, upon entering the room for the meeting with Sollux, proceeded to give them such a sternly ashen talking-to Sollux was yellow for an entire week and Tavros couldn’t look anyone in the eye.

You’ve saved the burgundies and reds for last, tipping his horns in skulls and vines and thinking your own thoughts that are actually a little private right now, can’t you see that? Then you wonder who you’re talking to and openly begin purring, burying your face in Tavros’ soft silky hair and grinning. He shifts.

“Can I see?”

You let him up and wait until he’s flicked on the switch for the ablutions block, then say, “I was just messing around.”

He blinks, tips his horns from side to side, and then glances at you, smiling.

“I’m not keeping it like this,” he says, “but, maybe, if it’s alright, we can snap a picture?”

You fumble for your palmhusk to take as many photos as you want and Tavros just shakes his head and grins adoringly up at you until you’re finished. After which, you are tackled into a beanbag and papped senseless.

It is very, very nice.

Go away, please. Do not disturb. Aradia has left the building.

[quillyfied]

Pale DirkJane?

oh no. my one weaknesssss. you can blame tatterdemalionamberite for this one, since this lovely vision of dirk and jane broship is lovely

Your name is Jane Crocker and your roommate has just punched a man in the face.

Dirk shakes his hand a little but doesn’t move from where he’s standing in front of you, over the swearing smelly heap of neckbeard that up until a few seconds ago was making loud comments about your breasts and where you lived, anyway. You’re not happy that Dirk had to intercede, but you’re not going to deny that it satisfies you immensely to see the jerk mopping up his nose and crying a little. You take Dirk’s elbow and move him to the side, and after a sharp glance your way he lets himself be moved.

 “Next time I say leave me alone,” you say sternly as the idiot glares up at you through watery eyes, “listen to me.”

 As you walk away, the punched party makes a rude comment about your roommate, possibly stemming from the fact that Dirk’s outfit today includes a healthy smattering of light blue ruffles (of course it does, because he borrowed one of your skirts today), and you turn back and open your mouth. Dirk forces you back around and speed-walks out of there, your face turning redder and redder every minute he does not let you return to possibly shove your stiletto heel in his face.

 “Not worth it,” he says as he chivvies you into a taxi.

 “So it’s worth it when you get to punch someone?” you say, but you’re pouting now. If he’d let you go back, you might be late for Parks and Recreation and he knows you’d really be stewing all night. He grins, smoothing down his (your) skirt.

 “Wouldn’t want you to break your hand on that guy’s face,” he says. “Too much stupid can kill, y’know.”

 You settle back in your seat and resolve to pout extravagantly for the rest of the ride home.

 When you get home, Dirk gets the TV set up while you go change. Out in the real world, you wear skirts and dresses and heels, but when you get home, more often than not you slip into loose t-shirts and probably some of Dirk’s boxers, which may or may not actually be one of his exes’ boxers, but either way they fit you and you’re done with proper clothes for the night. You make up the popcorn and sit down next to Dirk with your spoils, preparing to relax by ogling some fine mustachioed beefcake.

 Your mind inevitably wanders back to this evening’s confrontation, and you lean against Dirk’s shoulder, breathing out a deep sigh. He glances at you, and awkwardly reaches up with his other arm to pat your head.

 “Thanks,” you say, because you never did say it enough when the two of you were younger and he really did help you out tonight. You see that he quirks a small smile, and nods.

 “Any time, Crockpot.”

 You roll your eyes at the old nickname. Roxy came up with it first, back in high school. You think of high school as a relatively uncomplicated time, despite your and Dirk’s unspoken competition over Jake’s fine microshorts. It got a lot easier to be around him, once you’d both realized why you just weren’t that compatible with Jake (and it had nothing to do with your realization that you’re ace and Dirk’s that he actually does like monogamy).

 Getting ready for bed in your apartment is like everything else you do—a little bit of a dance, as you both work around the single bathroom and share  the sink space and hipcheck each other as you pass each other in the hall.

 “I have a date tomorrow,” Dirk reminds you as you finish brushing your teeth.

 “Do you need the place to yourself?” you ask as you move aside and let Dirk do his mouthwash.

 “Depends on what she thinks of my MLP manicure,” he says, and wiggles his fingers at you. “Are you going grocery shopping tomorrow?”

 “Should be,” you nod. “I can go see Jake and Roxy’s new place tomorrow, I suppose.”

 “You could just let me set you up with somebody,” he says. “Make it a double date.”

 You shrug and grin at him, going into your room and getting into bed. Dirk cannonballs in and flops onto the bed, and you wheeze through a giggle as he cuts off your breathing with his weight.

 “You eat too many Pizza Rolls,” you complain, and Dirk makes a show of nudging his way under your blankets, curling up against your back.

 “I am healthy as a horse,” he yawns. “Goodnight, sweet Jane.”

 You smile. “Goodnight.”

 It’s not unusual for him to fall asleep in your room, or for you to fall asleep in his, or for both of you to forego beds entirely and fall asleep during TV show marathons on the couch. Honestly, it’s comforting. You might just be a freak who doesn’t like dating because explaining why sex makes you uncomfortable takes longer than it would just to propose cuddling instead, but at least your roommate is just as weird and you know he’s not going anywhere.

[quillyfied]

HPR- GHB and Redglare if you can! Could you do Redglare trying to calm GHB?

oh wooow. that's a change. :D

Your adult title is Neophyte Redglare, but to the heaving, snarling mass of hair and muscle you have tied up on your floor, you’ve always been Latula Pyrope.

Usually the ropes are just a formality, because normally Kurloz purposely trips one of the many booby traps you have set up around your hive just to have a laugh before ruining your newest net or some such. Today, when he came to visit you, it was in a red-eyed froth. So you did the sensible thing and wound him up in—okay, it’s not actually rope, it’s more like steel cable, but still. Nuance. It’s a braided cord used for restraining trolls who look like they want to hurt you.

 You cautiously approach, only to leap back as he snaps at you, throwing his bulk behind the motion and straining at you with his jaws snapping. Okay. So that’s not going to work. You chew your lip, analyze the situation, and come to the conclusion that if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, he may be too far gone right now to tease you about it later.

 You start with making a steady, rumbling sound in your thorax—a ssshhhhhh that gains a few soft vowel sounds as you steadily cut through his hoarse yelling babble with the quietness of your own voice. You wait until he’s merely growling and no longer shouting, and then edge closer, backing away when you make too sudden a movement and he lunges, making sure you stay within his sight so you don’t spook him and undo all your hard work.

 By the time you work up the courage to lay your palm on his cheek—it feels like hours later, and your back feels damp with sweat—his eyes have faded to orange, and he looks…sleepy? You look at this mountain of a troll, easily four or five heads taller than you, and feel a mixture of relief and pride. You pap him again, still shooshing, and Kurloz closes his eyes, heaving a huge sigh that seems to deflate him.

 “I’m alright now,” he mumbles. “UNTIE ME.”

 You frown at him. He rolls his eyes.

 “Please.”

 You untwist the knots, untangling him as best you can, and Kurloz slips out of the coils of cable and sits on the floor, rubbing the purple welts where the cable dug in.

 “Sister,” he says gently, “Latula, if you ever do that to me again, I WILL REND YOUR HEAD FROM YOUR SHOULDERS.”

 “Then don’t come see me when you’re in a bad mood,” you say, straightening your jacket and flicking a speck of lint off of your lapel. “I will do whatever I need to in order to save my own skin. If you can’t control yourself, maybe I need to step in now and then.”

 You realize how much like a pale come-on that sounds and decide to roll with it; you did just have your mitts on his face, after all. Kurloz ducks his head down, and you think the tips of his ears are indigo. Is he blushing? Is the big bad Grand Highblood seriously such a wiggler that he can’t handle a little pale hookup and you making jokes about it?

 “Well,” he rumbles, “WELL. Maybe won’t. BE SO BAD. If you DO IT.”

 You blink, and he looks up and glares. “BUT NOT EVERY TIME. Once in a while. Got it?”

 You grin and make a sweeping bow. “Of course, sir. Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.” You straighten. “Was there a point to your visit, other than your obvious yearning for my pale expertise?”

 He swipes at you, and you dance out of the way, still grinning. To your pleasant surprise, he’s grinning back.

[quillyfied]

for harlequin pale romance night: meenah<>aranea. Theyve been unofficially pale for forever, but meenah wants to make it official. How does she "propose"?

ooh. that one's different. :) my apologies for my terrible meenah and aranea; i haven't had much experience writing them. i hope this helps!

Your name is Aranea Serket and your…friend…is acting strangely.

You have to admit, despite Meenah’s usual reckless tendencies, she’s acting even more oddly than usual. And what’s worse, you think she’s outright avoiding you. That’s a little bit hurtful, actually. You frown and worry at your lip with your teeth and go about your daily routine, trying to ignore that Meenah’s been talking to Kurloz quite a bit. It’s not that you don’t like Kurloz, he’s just a little too…chatty…for you. Yes, that’s a mild way to put it.

 You don’t realize the extent of your distraction until you feel the plastic nutrition plateau you were scrubbing snap under the force of your scrubbing. You stare dumbfounded at the two halves of the plate, then throw up your hands in exasperation.

 “Yo, Serket.”

 You stiffen a little, then release a breath. “Yes, Meenah?” you say, turning to face her, and then blink, because she’s on her knee, grinning at you with the most angel-may-care look on her face you’ve ever seen. In her hands is a small box.

 “What are you doing?” you ask. She frowns.

 “What’s it hook like I’m doing?” she says back. You shrug.

 “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen this gesture before.”

 She gives an exaggerated sigh, rolling her whole head back as she rolls her eyes.

 “That’s beachcause it’s something awesome I made up,” she says. “Everybody’s gonna do it pike this in, like, a couple weeks. Trust me on this.”

 You fold your arms and purse your mouth. “And what exactly are you doing?”

 She grins and flips open the lid of the box. It takes you a minute before you realize what you’re staring at and clap your hands to your mouth.

 That insufferable grin on her face widens as your eyes, unbidden, fill up, but you can’t help it, you’ve been waiting for so long for her to—you gently pick the gold ring up out of its cushion and admire the beautiful gemstone—some kind of garnet, maybe?—cut into a beautiful diamond shape.

 “Listen, Aranea,” she says, and you stop ogling the ring for a minute to take her hand. “We been kinda doin’ the pale thing already, I guess, boat if you wanna—”

 “I do!” you say fervently, turning blue in the cheeks as Meenah stands and your fingers lace more perfectly together. “I—this ring is beautiful, Meenah, I thought you’d never ask!”

 “Yeah, well,” she says, shrugging and nudging you with her forehead. You wrap her up in a hug. “Knew you were probubbly overthinkin’ it, so I thought I’d go for it.”

 You snort, an undignified sound made grosser by your tears, and squeeze her tight. The ring glitters beautifully on your finger, you think as you treat her to dinner. It’s absolutely perfect.

[quillyfied]

(...Diamonds and Stars verse and how awkward it was the first time they jammed after they got out of the business together?) (or uh, uh, uh, Solrezi and tough love re: Sollux's self-abusive tendences?) (Human gamkar tweenies ending up jamming for the first time in middle school and all the associated emotional problems that come from human pre-teen boys finding themselves cuddling and talking about each other's deepest emotions?) (I DON'T KNOW)

WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT YOU GIVING ME WONDERFUL THINGS TO DO WHEN I CAN ONLY REALLY DO ONE AT A TIME. XD (though fyi you are allowed to request multiple times within reason)

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you just feel…wrong.

Not about Gamzee, never about your decision to be with him, and certainly not about your decision to leave your…previous employment…but something screams at you that something is wrong when Gamzee curls up around you and—

 And—

 And there are no cameras around.

 You bite down hard on your lip and try to shake the feeling on your own, because Gamzee can feel you tensing up under his kneading of your back muscles (nnngggh yeah you needed this). He doesn’t need to worry about this, because he’s doing everything right and perfect and it isn’t his fault that you can’t seem to be pale without thinking about it like an act—

 Oh, gog, you actually just thought about it, and now you can’t get it out of your head—that you’ve never actually done things like this when other people weren’t filming in preparation for other people watching, that you’ve papped probably hundreds of trolls and made yourself feel pale for them, that’s how you made it in this business, and now you’ve method-acted yourself right into something real and you just can’t stop

 Gamzee’s hand gently tilts your head up. “Bro, I been getting my call on your name a few times now. What’s wrong?”

 Oh, mother grub. You swallow.

 “Nothing,” you say, and Gamzee frowns, pressing his forehead to yours, and you would like to thank jegus and all his little elves for you having the foresight to insist on Gamzee taking the face paint off every morning before he goes to bed (and, by happy coincidence, before a lot of your jamming happens, thereby minimizing the damage to your wardrobe via greasepaint). It seems like a selfish and terrible thought, you making him give something up for you that is vital to him, but he brushes his thumbs over your cheeks and you’re reminded that he really doesn’t mind.

 One of these nights, the extent to which he doesn’t mind just might get the two of you in trouble, you think, and then realize you’ve tuned him out again. He huffs, but the effect is ruined by the twitch of a smile.

 “Got some deep thoughts going down in your pan, my brother?” he asks, and you release a breath, trying to think of something that hasn’t already been scripted out. You’ve memorized these scripts, memorized what you should say, and you are terrified that one day you’re going to pap him on autopilot and he’ll know.

 He frowns at you sternly, then you see the flicker of fear behind his eyes, and no, no, no, he shouldn’t, he has no cause to, no, just—

 You wiggle up the couch and crush him in a hug, navigating his head into the crook of your neck and whispering fiercely into his hair whatever comes to your mind—mostly pale platitudes you know you  mean with every cell and fiber of your being, some personal stuff, like how you’re never going to leave him, how much he means to you, how much he’s worth as a living troll being with feelings.

 “Pale for you too, bro,” he says, a bit breathless, and you think for a moment it’s because of the force of your feelings and then realize you’re actually kind of suffocating him. Whoops. Way to go, panleak, you think to yourself as you loosen up, way to go and ruin a good jam.

 “Now bro,” he says, speaking directly into the skin of your throat and making you shiver when the points of his fangs brush your skin but don’t break it, never will break it, “I am just about sick with how pale I am for you, now that I know what a true palemate does for a brother, and I got me the knowing that my palest brother, my most precious diamond—” You take a moment to internally combust and die at how romantic that is, “—has a hurt in him what he won’t talk to me about.”

 You bite your lip. Do you even dare? Your moirallegiance with Gamzee is so different from what you’ve forced yourself to feel for other people, so chaotic, so passionate. Do you even dare put that on the line just because your pan hasn’t figured out the difference between your former line of work and your actual relationship yet?

 He plants a kiss in the hollow of your collarbone and you shiver.

 “Sometimes,” you say in a small, small voice, “I for—I forget that I’m not acting.”

 He stiffens with surprise, and you wait for him to pull away, to demand answers, to tell you that he’s leaving. Your hands spasm around him and you force them to go still.

 “Bro,” he says, in a quiet and tender voice, “Karkat, sugar, let me ease you on this one thing.” Sugar. Ohhhh gog. You knew he was the master of dirty talk but oh gog.

 He pulls you down a little until you’re face-to-face, and then he takes your hand and places it—places it over his blood-pusher. You can feel the beat, feel the coolness of his skin through his thin and ratty shirt, and you swallow.

 “Next time you get to thinking that you need to act for me,” he says, “or you slip into them old habits what made you famous, just remember for me, bro, that I ain’t going nowhere.” You swallow again, this time to forestall a total crying breakdown. “It’s all chill with me if you forget. When you go so long and every troll you pap or get papped by ain’t real…sometimes it’s easy to…forget…” He shivers, and you are so grateful right now that the blackout curtains are drawn and it’s dark because you don’t think you’re ready for him to see how red you are, to see how gross your face is about to be because tears. “Just repeat it to each other out loud, bro. Ain’t no cameras. Ain’t no director. Ain’t no script.” He reinforces his grip on your hand and you reflexively clutch at his pump biscuit, smoothing your fingertips over his skin. “Just you and me.”

 You bury your face in his chest, put your cheek right up against that steady beat, and cry your eyes out. Gamzee holds you and strokes your back and you forget, for the rest of that jam, exactly why you were upset, anyway. No cameras. No director. No script.

 Just you and your moirail.

[quillyfied]

for the Harlequin Pale Romance Request, maybe gamkar? how about a chat about their quadrants, (KK totally views real life as a romcom ;o))

kinda deviated but what're you gonna do, these dumb boys do what they want. XD

Your name is Gamzee Makara and your chill is just a bit harshed on account of Karkat’s fingers tweaking your horn a little too hard, all absent-like.

It ain’t like him to be rough with his hands, and your abused horn sets to twingeing and you whine a little, to get his attention. His hands flutter like startled chirpbeasts and he swears like he does.

 “Sorry,” he apologizes, and sets to petting your hair all nice. Still, it’s of import to you that some thought up and occurred to him that set him at odds, so you clear up your throat.

 “Wanna talk about it, bro?”

 He glances down, and his mouth all tightens and his shoulders all hunch and you sigh and get ready to bed in for another evening of playing the concerned ‘rail you are while you try to coax the info you need out. Then he up and deflates.

 “Not that having a functional pale quadrant isn’t nice,” he says, “but…I wish…I had…” He gestures vague at the air and you think you understand. You got him and you got your own sweetest heart what you like to smooch up on, and you think what he’s getting at is—

 “You’re lonely, best friend,” you say, and his jaw clenches. “Naw, naw, brother, don’t—here.” You sit up and guide him all gentle into your lap because it’s his turn for cuddles, and he never does concede defeat easy but tonight he just flops over, glaring but compliant.

 “Ain’t no shame, Karbro, ain’t no shame,” you say soothingly as you pet around his horns. “Let it all out.”

 It never does suit him easy to let out what he needs. No beans does he spill without a fight. Even when he’s limp and the edge of a purr is in his thorax he takes his own sweet time and you let him have it, because ain’t no other troll what can witness this miracle but you and you savor it.

 “I…kind of always thought it would be like the movies,” he says, and you smile and pet him because he’s so cute when he gets his talk on about his movies. “I managed to hook up with you no thanks to my awesome papping prowess—” You let out a little satisfied chirrup and he blushes, you up and love that he does that. “—and I guess I thought once I got the one down, at least the concupiscent quadrants would fall into place. Who even knows about ashen, that quadrant’s weird, but for flush and pitch, I thought—”

 You stroke him while he waxes eloquent about his grievances, humming to yourself when it looks like he’s working himself up and doing your level best to put your palebro to rights.

 “Got any crushes, best friend?” you ask when he finally gets to a lull, and he turns bright miracle red like the cutest little troll in the universe, how’s his cheeks even know to do that? You’re often told you are too old for miracles, but the way you see it, you’re never too old for miracles, so miracles you call.

 “Maybe,” he grumbles, and you begin making up a plan, a plan what you should’ve already been enacting (you are the worst moirail, it’s you).

 Your Karbro talks, and you plan, and you think to yourself that hey, if you managed to get yourself a matesprit, it can’t be too hard to get a troll great as Karkat one, right?

 Right. ‘sides, you’ve got some tenderness to repay and this seems like the best way to do it.

 You got this.

[quillyfied]

Harlequin Pale Romance Request Night 2: Son of HPR

Hey, y'all!

Some of y'all may remember the Harlequin Pale Romance request night I did a few months back. Well, I've got the itch, and a need to scratch it, so for THIS WEEK ONLY, we're gonna do another one!

The Rules:

- ONLY PALE (<>) REQUESTS. You can do any characters, and it doesn’t necessarily have to be Homestuck! But I do have to know the characters and feel comfortable enough to write them, so keep that in mind.

- Qualifyer: I do feel terribly inadequate handling other people’s OCs, but if you offer character archetypes (such as Stern Drill Sergeant or Soft-Spoken Cadet), I will make up characters to fill the positions.

- If you so wish, with your preferred moirallegiance you can include some kind of pale kink or headcanon you want me to feature. Harlequin romances are typically the kind of trashy wish-fulfillment fiction that is akin to satisfying junk food, so feel free to get as self-indulgently tender as you want. Just don’t get TOO specific or I won’t have much creative wiggle room to write in.

- NO ‘RAILS WITH PAILS. MOIRALLEGIANCE IS NOT TYPICALLY A SEXUAL QUADRANT AND I AM NOT GOING TO TREAT IT AS SUCH.

I will do my best to write ficlets for every request. I reserve the right to not fill a request if the particular characters/pairing/kink/headcanon makes me uncomfortable.

So from TODAY until NEXT MONDAY, I will be taking and filling requests the best I can! Please include "HPR" at the beginning of your request so I know you've read the rules. Also so I can sort my inbox.

Let's make Round 2 of HPR happen, guys!